


fishhook

by Ashling



Category: Dublin Murders (TV)
Genre: Background Cassie Maddox/Sam O'Neill, Dialogue Heavy, Implied Past Cassie Maddox/Rob Reilly, Implied Past Frank Mackey/Cassie Maddox, Post-Canon, Screenplay/Script Format, Straight Razors, all weapons turned against each other were forged by their own hands., and one of them is going to lose., the history between them has never felt so heavy.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: FRANK: Rob Reilly's your weak point, Cass.Somehow, that's still true.The first scene of a second season of Dublin Murders that will never happen.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 7
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	1. teaser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plutonianshores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/gifts).



> Thank you, plutonianshores, for enabling me.
> 
> Inspired by Sarah Phelps's script for Dublin Murders episode one, available [here](https://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/scripts/dublin-murders). 
> 
> Work skin a slight variation on [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17663495/chapters/41658683) skin by [astronought](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronought/pseuds/astronought).

INT. FRANK’S ROOM - NIGHT

The soft sound of rain. A man on his side in bed, asleep, facing the camera. The bed shoved up against a wall with two big windows. A very small, empty room. One folding chair, no blankets, oversized and faded Daffy Duck t-shirt, boxers. Bluish moonlight spilling over the man’s body, the shifting pattern of raindrops on the windowpanes. Intimate. Almost peaceful.

The man shifts in his sleep, restless. At this new angle, his face catches more moonlight. FRANK MACKEY, 45 and showing every day of it. Skin and bones. Old mottled bruise below his left eye disappearing into a sparse almost-beard. Other little things wrong: no bottom sheet between him and the white mattress, paint peeling between the windows. He shifts again, more violently this time, and his back thumps against the wall. Face in shadow now, but right arm outflung in the space where a second pillow should be. His hand has a massive wad of bandaging on the palm, two fingers professionally splinted. Pure stillness, and then his hand twitches. There’s a quiet sound, a glottal stop. Made deep back in the throat.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

Faint metal on metal, then the door gliding inward. Faint squeak of hinges. Footsteps. The place is dark.

Only one person lives here. It’s too small. Narrow sort-of hallway opening into living area (one battered faux leather sofa, a laptop plugged into the wall) and kitchenette (a bit of countertop, some cabinets, a sink, a microwave). In the shadows, it’s hard to tell which is uglier, the empty spaces of peeling paint, the piles of wrappers and stray cans, or the stacks of paper. Some papers pinned against the bare wall above the sofa, writing and photographs both. Perhaps a face, here or there? An open door into a tiny bathroom, and then, through a slice of half-open door, Frank’s outstretched hand with its bandages and splints is distinctive. Patter of raindrops.

Back in the living area. A light now, not bright enough to light up the whole room, shining on the wall with the papers. No red thread and thumbtacks, but it’s that kind of a homemade collage. A blueprint of a very large building, a few illegible Post-Its. Four of the photographs are mugshots. Some computer printouts with tiny font. The light gets closer, and it’s from a phone held in a hand belonging to CASSANDRA MADDOX, 35. Hard to make out the exact nature of her appearance with the phone light aimed away from her, but her silhouette shows a well-tailored blazer and trousers, a bun with every hair in place. She leans in to the wall until her face is a foot away, closer to the phone light. Stares intently. Beneath subtle, “natural” makeup, her face is tight and her eyes burn. Some unspent energy. Some unfinished business.

CASSIE

(low) Jesus.

In reply, a very clear click.

FRANK

(unconcernedly) Wrong neighborhood. He doesn’t come around much.

Cassie turns around slowly, unafraid, deliberate.

CASSIE

Is that why you chose to live here?

Frank is holding the gun with his good hand. With the other, he reaches behind him, without looking, and flips the light switch with his pinky finger.

It’s like magic: ghostly to manky in a second. Lots of yellow light, some of it flickering from a bulb nearly spent. The clarity turns vague shapes into unpleasant realities: one sofa cushion shows stuffing through cut upholstery, a couple trays of TV dinners still have bits of food clinging wetly to their plastic corners, the linoleum badly needs a vacuum.

CASSIE

It suits you.

A beat. Frank lowers the gun and puts his injured hand over his heart.

FRANK

Cassandra. Ouch.


	2. pt i

CUT TO:

[Scene: The night shift beginning over at Serious and Organized Crime. Stephen’s first day, and it shows. He’s way too fucking eager for a man who’s not getting to sleep till probably 10am. His arm is in a sling.

The other detectives treat him strangely, as if he’s something too serious for derision and too despicable for ordinary new-kid-in-class ribbing, but also they don’t want to confer the gravity of actual hatred on him. Nobody likes a snitch, but they’re under orders from the gaffer not to bitch about it, so they convey this treatment mostly in dirty looks, or putting unpleasant tones of voice on innocuous phrases. Stephen pretends not to notice.

Sam O’Neill is the one who’s assigned to be his partner, and it’s just as well, since Sam seems to genuinely sympathize with him over the shit he’s getting. He even lets Stephen drive the unmarked car for the long hours of their long-distance highway surveillance assignment. But then, sometimes, as Stephen concentrates on tailing their target without being seen, Sam will look over at Stephen with joyless curiosity. Really? he seems to be thinking. This freckle-face? This skinny kid? All that damage?

It’s during one of these sideways glances that, up above, the car that they’re following gets T-boned by a sixteen-wheeler. Complete smash, glass flying, a desperate screech of wheels, Stephen swerves—]

CUT TO:

INT. FRANK’S APARTMENT. NIGHT

Frank on the sofa, popping a crisp into his mouth from the bowlful on his lap. Flush of the toilet, Cassie washing her hands in the bathroom beyond.

FRANK

Sure I can’t get you anything?

CASSIE

(a touch dryly) I’m sure, yeah.

FRANK

Suit yourself.

Cassie emerges from the bathroom. She has to pick up Frank’s gun before she can sit beside him in the middle of the sofa. He holds a crisp up, without looking, and she snags it with her teeth. As she chews, she checks the chamber. One bullet, as she expected; she ejects the magazine and racks the slide. The empty cushion beside her is concave the way no sofa cushion should be, but it is handy; she puts the gun and the magazine and the bullets down on it and it holds them like a saucer would. Frank watches with an inquisitive look in his eye. Cassie swallows the last fragments of crisp.

CASSIE

You're not supposed to bring your weapon home with you.

FRANK

You always did.

He offers another crisp. She declines.

CASSIE 

Frank, you were never a housewife, but this is a real shithole.

FRANK

Yeah?

Crunch.

CASSIE

Please don’t make me do the whole concerned mammy routine. You’re a grown man.

FRANK

Nobody’s making you do anything, Cassandra. Nobody ever could. 

CASSIE

At least if you were a cat lady, the cats would get some good eating from your dead body.

FRANK

I’m not big on altruism.

CASSIE 

No kidding. (a beat) This is it, then? You’re going to spend your suspension living worse than a scholarship student, trying to work a case that isn’t yours?

The nightmarish collage of criminals and hurried notes and ill-gotten phone records is spread on the wall just behind their heads, so Frank doesn’t bother with denial.

FRANK

(winningly) “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

CASSIE

You’d be better off with a mop. 

FRANK

Yes, Ma.

CASSIE

Cause you can’t let Holly in here. Not like this.

A long beat. A line crossed, and they both know it. Frank looks over, anticipatory now, guard up.

FRANK

Won’t be a problem. 

CASSIE

(ruthless, pleasant) Cause you take her to the park instead?

FRANK

Visitations are twice a month now, at the house. And supervised. 

But she knew that already. 

Another long beat. Cassie knows when to stop pushing; Frank knows when he's being provoked, but he reached the end of his rope a while ago. In the low buzz of the flickering overhead bulb, he hears his own reproaches. Finally he snaps.

FRANK

(brightly) Ah, I see it now.

CASSIE

(over it already) What?

FRANK

The error of my ways. 

He sets the half-empty bowl on the arm of the sofa and stands up.

FRANK

I got hit with a stroke of bad luck as likely as a lottery win, I got stitched up by a floater, I got shot, and a fat bastard in a wig who’s never worked a day in his life told me that I was lucky to see my daughter twice a month because he thought I’d used her for bait— 

He’s not shouting, not even close, but at this point his voice nearly cracks.

FRANK

—but sure, I never considered that some fairy liquid and a spot of scrubbing would solve all my problems. I’ll clean up my flat, that’ll sort it. You’ve done it, Cass. You’ve saved me!

His face is set in a rictus of a smile.

Cassie remains sitting, apparently undisturbed and unmoved.

CASSIE

Not enough beauty sleep, Frankie? You are looking a bit raccoon.

FRANK

(shoving it all down again) It’s always fun dancing with you, babe, but you should go back to Blackrock. Your boyfriend's probably wondering where you are.

CASSIE

He knows.

FRANK 

Does he? Good for him. That’s more modern than I gave him credit for.

CASSIE

You never gave him any credit.

FRANK

Course I did. He’s a nice boy. I don’t know what you think you’re doing with a nice boy, but he’s a nice boy.

A long beat. Frank relaxed in the shoulders, defiant and mulish as all hell in the eyes. 

CASSIE

Sit down.

Frank doesn’t move a muscle, but Cassie holds that stare. Eventually, for once in his life, Frank does as he’s told. He does it with the air of a man whose cooperation comes as a great personal favor. 

CUT TO:

[Scene: An eerie domesticity. Kitchen far too perfect for a family with three kids; no toys lying around, no scraps of paper used as grocery lists, no magnets on the fridge. Long table with the father at the head, the mother sitting opposite, the uncle sitting at the father’s right hand, one twelve year old daughter and two young sons sitting between. Kids too well-behaved, especially for that age. Napkins white and neat in their laps. 

Talk of a picnic, the obligatory review of each child’s day. Asking after plans for the next week. The daughter wants to go to Jenny’s birthday party on Sunday. Mother says no, and does that black dress with the white collar still fit you? No. Alright then, we can go shopping tomorrow. The mother is somewhat puzzled when the shopping trip infuriates her daughter instead of appeasing her. 

Meanwhile, a very oblique argument between the father and uncle. Intense but carried on under the code of a disagreement of what to do with a car, as the mother pretends not to notice. Finally, the uncle’s so upset he goes outside for a smoke. The children are dismissed from the table. They have not spoken once without being spoken to first, the whole time.]

CUT TO:

Frank’s sitting in the same corner of the sofa, while the middle sofa cushion is occupied by a couple of spread paper takeaway napkins and the remainder of the crisps, and the far sofa cushion is still occupied by the pieces of his dismantled gun. Cassie’s blazer is draped on the back of the sofa. On Frank’s lap is the bowl that used to hold the crisps, now half-full with soapy water. And then there’s Cassie, with the sleeves of her button-down rolled up, standing beside the sofa with one knee propped up on the sofa arm and one arm leaning against the wall. In her free hand is a straight razor, held with ease and familiarity, just as it should be, the scale resting between her fourth finger and her pinkie. Frank is lathering up his face with shaving cream. The motions are ordinary, but the mood is anticipatory, almost furtive. Time for round two.

FRANK

Talk about a right-hand man.

CASSIE

Yeah.

Frank scrapes the excess shaving cream off his good hand on the edge of the bowl. Cassie tilts her head a fraction, considering his face, then leans in, razor poised.

FRANK

Hail Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death, the Lord—

He knows full well that he’s butchering the Hail Mary. Cassie shuts him up by touching blade to skin, not even moving it to shave, just a touch. He goes still. They look at each other. Despite everything, there’s still some memories. Not all of it damage. 

Cassie turns her attention back to his cheek and begins to shave in short, precise strokes. She starts high on his cheek and works her way down, pausing every now and then to rinse off excess shaving cream in the bowl. When she gets down to Frank’s jaw, she lifts his chin a fraction with one knuckle to get the angle right. Cassie appears absorbed in her task, her face close to his, eyes narrowed in concentration, but Frank has nothing to do but sit there and think, and now more than ever, his thoughts aren’t friends.

Although Cassie does not know it, this is the first time in two weeks that anyone has touched Frank Mackey, unless you count people trying to kill him. He can’t stand it. He speaks as soon as he can, when she takes a moment to rinse off the blade again. 

FRANK

You’re going to get a kink in your neck, there, Cass. D’you want to sit in my lap? Be just like old times. (beat) Ow. 

A tiny nick, like a paper cut. One drop of blood wells slowly, then drops into the bowl below.

FRANK

Not even a “Sorry, my hand slipped? I’m out of practice?”

CASSIE

I’m not.

FRANK

Not out of practice, or not sorry?

Cassie goes on. She appears completely absorbed, but she’s learning. He will talk. He doesn’t like her silence, and he also doesn’t like being touched. She does it again, nudges his chin down a couple degrees with another gentle press of her knuckles.

FRANK

You know what I think? I think you’re repressing some feelings, there, Cassandra. I don’t blame you; if I had to work Domestic Violence AND fuck O’Neill, I’d be miserable too. But you don’t need to take it out on me.

This time, Cassie waits as the silence stretches, waits until his lips part to say something else. Then she shifts her weight, lifts her hand from the wall, and cups the back of his head, again tilting him just a little, nominally for better access. But then she doesn't take her hand away. It’s warm.

In Frank’s jaw, a muscle jumps. He’s finally caught on to her. He shuts up, endures.

CASSIE

Frank?

She’s looking intently at her work, the blade skimming along, only one twitch away from opening his jugular.

FRANK

Yeah.

CASSIE 

You need to leave that case alone.

Frank looks at Cassie, gauging exactly how much she means it, and she stills her hand so she can look back at him. Head bent, she’s a little ways above him, but in the look they’re equal adversaries. 

He breaks tension with a scoff, or tries to.

FRANK

Do you know, I can’t think of what the conversion rates would be, but with inflation, I have to imagine a modern twenty pieces of silver is pretty good stuff.

CASSIE

There you go, comparing yourself to Jesus Christ. 

She returns to shaving him, tricky bits under the ridge of his jaw, the softer skin. 

CASSIE

Does it ever occur to you not to be such a cliché? 

FRANK

I know they want to get rid of me. It’s not a message needs delivering.

CASSIE 

Well, yeah. They’ve always wanted to get rid of you. Everyone you’ve ever worked with has wanted to get rid of you.

FRANK 

With honorable exception.

CASSIE

Not really.

FRANK 

Who sent you, then? Curtis?

CASSIE

I’m nobody’s messenger.

FRANK 

Flanagan, then.

CASSIE

Whatever you say.

FRANK 

(beat) Nah. You should’ve said it was Curtis. That I would believe. But Flanagan? He’s almost as bad as O’Kelly for the straight and narrow. He reeks of it. 

CASSIE

I doubt he'd be top at Undercover if that was true.

FRANK

So nobody sent you. 

CASSIE

Apparently nobody's told you that Captain Ahab is not a good look on you. Or they did, but you didn't listen. So I thought I’d give it a try.

FRANK 

Out of the goodness of your heart? God, Cassie, don’t try to play the mammy again. If I’d been shot in the head instead of the hand, you’d tell pretty lies at my funeral and go home relieved. Be honest.

CASSIE

 _Be honest._ That’s enough irony to shoe a horse.

FRANK

Let’s do it like old times: mutually exclusive, completely exhaustive. There’s only three kinds of people with a badge who would want me to back off. My successor on the case has too big an ego to send a woman; anyone who considered themselves a buddy would know enough to do it themselves; and neither Curtis nor Flanagan would choose you. That’s not their style. You’re not here for anyone without a badge. That’s not your style, either. I’ve known virgin nuns more corruptible than you. 

CASSIE

Virgin. Is there any other kind?

FRANK

And you’re not here for me.

Cassie smiles at him, faintly, dangerously.

CASSIE

You’re sure of that?

In their usual rhythm, he would return her smile with his own, feline and knowing. But no smile. Not this time.

FRANK

Not now. Maybe if you’d come to the hospital, or sent me a text, or been a character witness at the hearing. Maybe if you had come a month earlier. But not now.

Cassie pauses between strokes. There’s still a small patch of unshaven skin on Frank’s left cheek, still.

CASSIE

You can’t really be angry that I _didn’t_ interfere in your life. After how many stiff hints about keeping things separate—

FRANK

I don’t care, it’s only evidence. You’re not here for me. That’s the point. You’re only here for yourself, so go on and tell me why.

Cassie’s intelligent dark eyes, her mouth set. She’s processing that, and there’s some flickers of recognition there, nascent theories and realizations forming. She reaches for him again. He catches her wrist in his hand.

FRANK

Give me that. 

A beat. She does.

CASSIE

Look. 

She starts slowly, tentatively, but soon that falls away and it’s only Cassie reaching out, in dead earnest, trying to make him understand.

CASSIE

After Operation Vestal, I didn’t want to see anybody. I didn’t go out except at night, I didn’t check my phone, I didn’t check my email, I lived off biscuits and I barely left the bed. If you had showed up at my door with soup and a get well soon card, if you had seen me like that, I would have smiled and said thank you and hated your guts for it until the end of days. I heard what happened with Holly, but I didn't think you’d want company afterwards. It never crossed my mind.

At the beginning of her little monologue, Frank’s was shaving himself in short, slow, practiced strokes; in the middle, he was hurrying a little to get it over with; and now, when she’s finally taking a breath, he interrupts by putting down the razor. He’s completely clean-shaven. He’s also bleeding from more than a couple nicks.

FRANK

I don’t want company, thus the lock on the door. The one you had to pick to get in.

CASSIE

(earnest and warm) Frank, if I had—

He cuts her off quickly. A few drops of blood are tracing their way down his neck.

FRANK

It’s all very touching, Cassie, but it’s also fucking irrelevant. You’re not here for anyone else. You’re not here for me. You’re here for yourself. I know you’re here for only yourself. Cause I can go to hell and stay there as long as I like, but the minute Rob Reilly gets a whiff...

HER EYES.

FRANK

Yeah. 

A beat.

FRANK

I knew it must be about Rob the minute I saw you, I just didn’t know how you found out. 

Cassie says nothing.

FRANK

I guess it doesn’t matter. Force is full of snitches nowadays.

It’s a beat before Cassie speaks, and when she does speak, there’s no spark to it. It’s a retort, but it tastes rote. Her mind is elsewhere.

CASSIE

Frank, your squad is practically the Department of Snitch Cultivation.

FRANK

Yeah, that’s different. 

They look at each other a long while. Cassie reaches back, pulls up the coffee table, sits down on it, gets as comfortable as she can. Then she gets out a pack of cigarettes, doesn't offer one to Frank, lights up. Settling in. It's entirely different territory now. Old façades gone, new façades up.

Now things are clear. Now they know where they stand.

Now it’s a fight.


	3. pt ii

CUT TO:

[Scene: Late hours at the shooting range. ROB REILLY, 35 but looking older, tall and gaunt, a scarecrow of a man sitting on a low bench by the wall. Knees at odd angles. Scrolling mindlessly through his phone, trying to wait out everybody else there, looking up every now and then to see. They drift out in twos and threes until it’s only him at one end of the range and, at the other end, MICK CORCORAN, 63, the man in charge of the range, overseeing ANTOINETTE CONWAY, 29. Mick is small, compact like a jockey, with thin tufts of grey hair, beady dark eyes and a half-hidden, pleased smile at Antoinette’s progress. Antoinette is too wholly absorbed in her work to even be pleased at her aim; her stance is perfect. She’s spent the past few months racking up a pretty decent bill in the way of spent bullets, but it’s clearly worth every last cent. She works at a steady rhythm, pausing every now and again for feedback from Mick, who will only murmur a few words and otherwise fades into the background. No signs of stopping.

Rob considers going home, but then, fuck it. He’s driven all this way. He’s waited this long. He sets up, the earphones over his ears, a little hesitance when he tries to remember what good form feels like. His first shot goes wide. Badly. Doesn’t even hit the paper target. He’s just setting up to try again, face screwed up in an expression of concentration that makes him look oddly young, when his phone goes off.

And all the way down on the other end of the range, Antoinette drops her stance and glances over, a flick of eyes. It’s rare to have somebody else shooting this late. At first, Rob’s hidden between dividers, but then his phone rings and he puts the gun down, steps back, and picks up his phone. Maybe it’s the English accent, or maybe she recognizes him; for whatever reason, a pulse of scorn goes through her eyes before she turns her attention back to her own business.

Rob, talking. Low murmur in the echoing hugeness of the near-empty range, rising misery and resignation at the same time. Finally he hangs up. Looks at the untouched target in front of him, then at the gun. He didn’t even get two bullets off. Fuck. He unloads the gun, puts away the bullets, holsters the gun, and then, finally, starts walking. Not towards the door. The opposite direction.

Mick hauls himself out of his seat and goes to meet him halfway, but much to his surprise, Rob’s not coming for him. He needs to talk to someone else. He needs to talk to Antoinette.]

CUT TO:

INT. FRANK’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

The flickering overhead bulb is going worse than ever. Something fluttering and frantic and caught. Meanwhile, below, languorous and deliberate, Cassie smoking. Frank wants one, but can’t be arsed to get up. Or maybe he knows better than to disturb the balance of the conversation. It’s in a familiar rhythm, this, but on a precipice.

FRANK

So what’s the plan, Cassandra? Going to persuade me with some combination of prodigious logic and sparkling wit?

CASSIE

If only logic worked on you.

FRANK

Give it a shot.

Cassie exhales, dark eyes unreadable. There is a hardness to her face that we have not seen before; we’ve seen anger, and hurt, and careful calculation, but not this. This is new. The balance of much of it is real and how much of it is for Frank's benefit is unclear.

CASSIE

His head is wrecked and he’ll let you down every time.

FRANK

(mock surprise, much amusement) _Je_ -sus.

CASSIE

(flatly) It’s the truth.

FRANK

When was the last time you saw him?

CASSIE

Don’t remember.

FRANK

Yeah, you do. (beat) And do you know the last time I saw him?

CASSIE

Last Thursday, noon.

FRANK

Yeah. By the way, babe, I don’t know whether to be pissed or proud that you’ve managed to cultivate a snitch right under my nose. 

He gets up, heads for the kitchen. 

CASSIE

Thanks.

Cigarettes in a drawer, a lighter. Frank takes his sweet time before he settles back down into the sofa.

FRANK

The point is: by now, I know Rob better than you do.

CASSIE

Nobody knows him better than I do.

FRANK

And they say romance is dead.

CASSIE

We worked hard cases and long hours; it’s just a fact.

FRANK

You worked long and hard, all right.

Subtlety? What’s that? Frank’s never heard of it.

CASSIE

(moving on without skipping a beat) He’s not suited to Undercover.

FRANK

From what I can see, Rob went undercover in Murder for years, right under O’Kelly’s nose, and he wasn’t even getting paid for it. Now that’s a natural if I’ve ever seen one. 

CASSIE

I know him and I know you. There couldn’t be a worse combination, and you’re both in shit shape. Even if it was a star team in peak form, the mission itself would be next to impossible. 

FRANK

What do you know about the mission?

CASSIE

(with conviction) Enough.

FRANK 

(exasperated) Seriously, what did you do, break into his house and read his diary? (beat) You should be happy, Cass. I’m going to get him exactly what he wants. 

CASSIE

Killed.

FRANK 

Promoted.

CASSIE

Yeah, promoted to glory.

FRANK

Oh, ye of little faith. 

CASSIE

The waves don’t part for you, Frank, I’ve learned that much. (beat) It would be one thing if you were sacrificing him for a slim shot at redemption. I’d still hate it, but I’d understand. This, though? (urgently) There’s no fucking shot, Frank.

Frank goes to open his mouth.

CASSIE

And don’t bullshit me, I haven’t got all night.

FRANK

Okay. (leaning forward) Have you not asked yourself yet why it is that I keep my job if everyone wants me gone? It’s because they don’t want me gone, not really. Yeah, they’ll send IA after me once every few years. They’ll fight me on overtime, they’ll bitch and moan about pretty much every decision I make, and they’ll get shiv me when they can, but at the end of the day, they want me on the inside of the tent pissing out. In a fight, they want me on their side. Sure, the plan is a Hail Mary, but they’ll let it go ahead, because deep down, they want me to win, so they can keep me around and keep winning. That’s it. It’s really very simple. Anyways, if you could go over my head, you would have done it already. How many years, and you’re still on DV? You have no leverage, Cassandra.

CASSIE

I don’t need to go over your head if I can cut your legs out from under you.

FRANK

You want to talk to Rob yourself? I was hoping you would. 

CASSIE

If I ask him to drop it, he’ll drop it. 

FRANK

No, he won’t. Rob would do anything for you, but he won’t follow any order you give him. It’s not the same.

CASSIE 

You really think he finds you more persuasive than me?

FRANK

Oh, I have no doubt you can tug on the poor guy’s heartstrings or rip him to shreds top to bottom. But I have the two things he wants, and you have nothing. First of all, I can get him out of the floater pool and onto a squad. Probably Arts and Antiquities, but it beats door-to-door interviews, especially when most of the other floaters are kids half his age. Plus he’s in debt; he needs the pay raise. 

Obstinate silence, until finally Cassie breaks out in impatience and asks the obvious question.

CASSIE

And what’s the other thing he wants?

FRANK

You. 

Cassie looks away, makes a tiny gesture with her cigarette that is supposed to be dismissive. It's wholly inadequate.

FRANK

The minute you show up telling him he’s got to drop the case or else, he has a choice. Do as you say and never see you again, or stay the course and hope that you show up later on, trying to save him again. What do you think he’s going to choose? You’ll drive him right into my arms. Seriously, you want to go talk to Rob Reilly? The cab fare’s on me.

CASSIE

Frank.

FRANK

Cassandra.

CASSIE

(deadly serious) You can’t have him.

FRANK

(matching her) I already do.

He holds that look for a long second, and finally Cassie snaps back with a flash of frustration. There’s no ashtray but there is an empty tumbler with disturbingly orange residue at the bottom (the remains of orange soda, perhaps?) and she uses that. Hands empty, leaning in now. 

CASSIE

Okay. The whole thing’s based in Galway, and he knows jack shit about the city. Interrogation is good practice for undercover, maybe the only decent practice that a detective gets short of doing actual undercover work, but he’s not stepped into an interrogation room in years. He’ll have to lose the accent, which is just a royal fuck-up waiting to happen. Any actor can tell you that the accent is most likely to go when they’re at their most emotional, which is exactly when he’ll need to be most convincing. Many of Kinney’s places are in the countryside, which means no backup team holed up just minutes away, and you’ll have a hell of a time even tailing them in a car without being spotted. If his mic goes to static one night, that’s it. That’s it, and you won’t ever find the body. Only seven garda were killed while on duty in Dublin last year, and only two were detectives: there was Rafferty from Murder and the suspect all jumped up on PTSD, and then, who was it? Ding ding ding, that’s right, it’s Leahy! Yours. And damn good, people said, even before he died. He was good, and his mic went to static. He was good, and he disappeared. Now you want to try someone completely new to undercover? This isn’t throwing him in the deep end to see if he can swim; this is throwing him in the piranha tank without even a net to collect his bones afterward! Not to mention, this is a case so full of drugs that it’s practically trailing white powder behind it everywhere it fucking goes, and he’s less than one year sober, and you know that! You _fucking_ scumbag.

By the time she finishes, she’s nearly shouting. A lesser man would, by now, be quivering in fear. A wiser man, maybe.

But this is Frank.

FRANK

Just because I’m a scumbag doesn't mean I’m wrong. The job is always dangerous. And this is a job that needs doing.

CASSIE

You’re full of shit. It doesn’t need doing. It doesn’t need him!

FRANK

A spike in overdoses from shit additives, four murders in the past year that we know of including, yes, an undercover detective, millions in blood money, oh, and they’ve got a little human trafficking on the side, like it’s a fucking hobby—

CASSIE

(bitterly) And you got shot. More importantly, you got shot. 

FRANK

(genuinely affronted) I don’t care about scars. You know better than that. 

CASSIE

Always comes back to the your scars, and that’s supposed to impress me. What about mine? It was a sharp knife. It went in too easy. A car crash, Templemore training, walking a beat, twenty-seven years on the face of the earth, and I never got any serious scars tilI I met you. What do you think that’s all about?

FRANK

I think a sharp knife comes with the territory, and you know it, and he knows it. And it’s not something inflicted on people; they have a choice. You had a choice. You jumped at it! And we got Johnstone in the end, so what the fuck are you going on about? You were happy.

CASSIE

That’s all that matters to you. You got your man. Must be a victory.

FRANK

I’m sorry, are we not badge-carrying, gun-wielding, actual honest-to-God detectives? That’s victory, period. That’s victory to anybody. Pull someone off the street, ask them.

CASSIE

You’re so worked up you couldn’t spot a pyrrhic victory if it was staring you in the face, that’s the problem. You have blinders on. It’s your fucking ego, Frank, it’s your ego and it always has been. You don’t need to crack Kinney to get respect back; you can do that by just doing a good job at some new assignment. You don’t need to crack Kinney to prove to anybody that matters that you didn’t use Holly. Anyone who matters, knows. You want to be the hero to your daughter? She doesn’t need a hero; she’s traumatized, and she can probably smell the desperation coming off you in waves, and when you’re twelve years old you don’t need a reason to hate your parents! With patience and with time it will turn. You are a scumbag and I’m not taking that back, but you’re a good father. I barely had a father, I barely know what a father is, and even I know that, Frank.

But you don’t want to settle for time and patience, do you. You want to play the hero again. You want to pull off the op that everybody thought could never possibly work, and then get a trophy, and then beat everybody over the head with it. You want to win. And that’s it, and that’s all there ever was. You work these ops like they’re the most thrilling videogames in the world, and you just want to win. 

Fine. Finish off your life. Fuck up Undercover, for all I care. But you can’t have him. He’s not going to be sacrificed at the altar of your ego; he’s not going to be a soldier in your last crusade. He’s not a pawn, he’s a human being. He—he likes cheese crackers, he can’t sleep on planes, he texts during movies, he doesn’t know how to talk to his mother. He’s a person. He’s not a thing.

FRANK

Could you do something for me? Simple task. It’ll only take you two seconds, and even a six-year-old couldn’t make a bollix of it. Ready? Let’s fucking try. Say the name Rob Reilly for me.

CASSIE

Over my dead body does Rob Reilly go within a hundred kilometers of your Galway bullshit.

FRANK

See, this whole time, you were fighting tooth and nail for the man, but you wouldn’t say his name. Not once. I was starting to wonder if you could. (beat) I heard you earlier, you know. When you said I had to be stopped. You said we—“we need to be stopped”—but you meant me. I’m sure you believed every word of it. I’m sure you meant well. But you know what? You couldn’t stop me then, and I think we both know you can’t stop me now. You have nothing. (beat) So, with all due respect, Cassandra, put up or shut up.

CASSIE

I have Sam.

FRANK

O’Neill? (scoffs) That—

CASSIE

(cutting in sharply) Detective Sergeant Sam O’Neill, that’s the one.

FRANK

Well, excuse me if I’m not shaking in my boots.

This isn’t just Mackey assholery. This is pretty much the reaction that any detective would have upon being threatened by the prospect of Sam O’Neill. But the thing is, nobody knows Sam O’Neill as well as his girlfriend does, and also, his girlfriend is mightily pissed off.

CASSIE

When Sam was in Murder, he had one of the highest solve rates, and after two and a half years on S&O, he’s got al the experience he needs. He has goodwill across the board from practically everyone he’s ever met, he’s Moynihan’s right hand man, and you’ve probably already heard through the grapevine that Moynihan has pancreatic cancer. There’s no way Moynihan lasts the year. And Sam will replace him. While all of you are laughing behind your hands at the big teddy bear, he’s about to jump your heads with ten years to spare.

FRANK

Head of Serious and Organized Crime. Really.

CASSIE 

Yeah.

FRANK

Good for him. Like I said, I always thought he was a nice boy.

CASSIE

S&O and Undercover are like two fingers of the same hand. You think Flanagan and Curtis are going to stick with you, out of loyalty to all the wins you’ve made in the past? You think Flanagan’s as honorable as all that? They’re going to ignore the massive cock-up you’ve made of of the past entire fucking year? Or will they chuck you out the window as a favor to the new head of Serious and Organized Crime, which everyone’s been dying to do anyway? What do you think it’s gonna be, Frank?

FRANK

God, I hope O’Neill knows what a lucky man he is. Your Lady Macbeth makes me hard. You’re sure he’d be okay with it, though? All the wheeling and dealing? He’s a bit of a prude, your Sam. Very desk. Very vanilla. I get the sense he’s the sort that loves missionary position.

CASSIE 

Whatever else you might think of him, you can’t deny that Sam would do it if I asked him to. Sam would go to war for me if I asked him to.

FRANK

You, on the other hand—

CASSIE

I would do the same for him.

FRANK

Then I don’t understand why you need to go to war over a man who you say you haven’t spoken to in years.

CASSIE

(gently)Frank, there is an twelve-year-old girl who you only see every second Saturday for an hour. From what I hear, she won’t even look you in the eye. 

_Holy shit_ doesn't even begin to cover it. This is something that has never even crossed Frank’s mind, and he inhabits suspicion like it’s a high calling.

FRANK

(slowly) You’ve talked to Olivia?

Cassie lets that sit for a minute. And Frank needs every second of that minute to adjust. Cassie talked to Olivia, and Olivia, for reasons passing all human understanding, talked to Cassie. Fucking hell doesn’t even come close. And he’s beyond anger now, transcended it into some place where all the facts are available and slippery and emotionally completely incomprehensible. 

When Cassie can see that he has taken this in, at least to the point where he will be able listen, she finally goes on.

CASSIE

(very gently, almost tender, velvet threat) I would bet my house that Holly is the only reason you haven’t driven into a tree at 100 kilometers per hour. (beat) You understand what I’m doing.

FRANK

Holly is my daughter. Holly is my _family_. Rob left you wounded, in the dust.

CASSIE

All my family are dead, so I admit that I’m not an expert. But from what I hear, people do sometimes leave their families behind.

HIS EYES.

It takes an enormous effort for Frank to pull it together. This is the second time Cassie has surprised him in one night. He knew she would fight tooth and nail for Rob; he knew it would be like cornering a wounded animals, and yet he wasn’t even close to prepared.

FRANK

So.

His voice is high in a way that’s meant to be light, but it comes out slightly breathless. He modulates it, deepens it, solidifies it.

FRANK 

You have the boyfriend cocked and loaded, you’ve gossiped with my wife, and you think you know something about my past. Is that all? 

CASSIE

(very calm and very sure) I won’t be waiting around while Sam gets his hands dirty. I’ll be in it with him. If I have to, I will stoop to your level.

FRANK

(bitterly) It’s not that far a distance.

CASSIE

I’m a thorough learner.

FRANK

And yet it’s not enough. 

He looks terribly tired, almost sick.

FRANK

All your threats, Cass, and it’s not enough. Whatever you’re going to do, let’s see you do it. Knowing how to fight in the mud isn’t the same as doing it. But if it comes down to that, you go ahead and throw everything you have at me, and I’ll keep going. The mission doesn’t stop just because you’re incapable of letting Rob Reilly go. The mission doesn’t stop, period. Now fuck off.

The thing is, though. She hasn’t thrown everything she has at him. Not yet. 

You can see that realization dawning in his eyes.

What could be worse than getting him fired from the job that he’s poured his life into? What could be worse than going behind his back and talking about him with his own ex-wife, talking about his daughter? What could be worse than digging into his history so far back that the sins unearthed belong to such a young Frank Mackey that he’s almost an entirely different person? What could be worse than that? What does she have?

For once, Frank is afraid. And he should be. 

Cassie is afraid too. And she should be. 

But she speaks.

CASSIE

You have a custody negotiation in four months? With an option for more visitation time and relaxed restrictions, depending on how it all goes. Yeah, I talked to Olivia. She thinks if you keep chasing Kinney, it’ll end you, and she doesn’t want to see it happen. She loves you enough for that.

FRANK

Jesus, Cassie, would you ever shut up?

It comes out of him like a flinch, like she’s hit him.

CASSIE

I checked the trial, and some of your coworkers did testify. But none of them mentioned that there’s plenty of precedent for you taking Holly with you to work. 

FRANK

Because they know—

CASSIE

Because they’re scared to. And it is the truth. You let Holly into the office; you took her in the car on drives, sometimes. She was with you when you briefed undercover detectives; she was there when you briefed me. I can testify to it. What do you think the judge would do?

This is beyond overwhelming. This isn’t really crossing some line in the sand; this is a fucking tsunami coming to obliterate every single living creature on the shore. And they know it. They can feel it. Cassie holds steady, braced against the next onslaught, but Frank’s thinking of something beyond the next attack. Despite all the cynicism, despite all the history and the resentment and the scars and the full measure they have taken of each other’s weaknesses, there’s some part of him that is surprised by what she’s done, and surprised by the sense of loss. He thought he knew he had lost her long ago. He thought he had gotten that settled in his head. Apparently not.

If she were any of his other protégés, he'd be pissed as hell, but some part of him would be proud that she went so far as to threaten his daughter, proud that she learned that much from him. There's no part of him that is proud now. He feels like pure shit.

FRANK

We’ve always been friends.

He tries to say it pure threat, but it comes out half-wrong. It comes out like there’s almost a human being saying it. 

CASSIE

If that changes, I’m ready.

He smiles, faintly.

FRANK 

If.

Beat.

FRANK

So that’s how far you would go.

He lights a cigarette, tries not to look like he needs the nicotine as badly as he does. 

CASSIE

Let me guess. You can’t decide whether to be pissed or proud?

FRANK

Nah, it’s an easy decision.

Beat.

FRANK

Rob would have been shit anyway.

Cassie begins unrolling her sleeves and buttoning them up again.

CASSIE

What, the Englishman pretending to be a drug dealer trying to make a connection in Galway? You don’t say.

FRANK

Not an Englishman, though.

CASSIE

That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about him.

FRANK

And I only said it because it’s true. (beat) Well, at least I have an understudy.

CASSIE

Yeah? 

FRANK

Yeah. I’ve worked with them before.

CASSIE

Poor bastard.

FRANK

Oh, I don’t think they need your pity. They seemed to enjoy themselves the first two times in Undercover, and they’re very qualified. A boyfriend is from Galway, so they’ve got some knowledge of the city. And if their insistence is anything to go by, they’ll be far more emotionally stable than Rob, on account of the happy relationship. They’re an excellent liar, and they have good aim. One shot, one kill. Two undercover ops, two killers found. Perfect record.

CASSIE

No.

FRANK

Don’t worry, you’ll be good.

CASSIE

No.

FRANK

If you stop and think for a minute, you’ll see it. You’re perfect for this.

Cassie is reeling. This whole conversation, this whole time, he knew it would come to this. She came loaded with every weapon she could find, laid before him every sin she was willing to commit, turned her enmity into a solemn promise, and this. This whole time, this. 

This is the point at which Frank should be gloating, grinning, but he just looks fucking wrecked. Hollowed out, spent.

FRANK

The mission’s going ahead either way, Friday after next. And it’s gonna be you, or it’s gonna be Rob. 

That’s it, that’s the whole fucking thing distilled. A simple choice. Not, as she thought, mission versus no mission. Or Rob versus another undercover detective. Rob or her. Sacrificial lamb. And Frank at the altar, with the knife. Frank with a knife is expected, of course; what’s so shattering about it is that she didn’t expect things to go this way. The things she’s said, everything that can’t be undone. And now they’re going to work together?

And now they’re going to work together.

FRANK

Come on, what do you think?

He puts out his cigarette and then turns and paws through one of the piles of paper stacked by the side of the sofa, emerging with one color photograph. In the center of the nightmare wall collage there is a picture of Rob, not a very good one, his eyes looking just off camera, his tie askew. Frank peels it away from the wall and replaces it with the photo he got from the stack.

This is Cassie, much younger. Not Cassie at all, really, Lexie, or Cassie-as-Lexie, as if you can tell that much of difference between the two at the distance of a photograph. It must have been taken from Rafe’s fancy phone, because the photo quality is amazingly good, and because there’s four people in the frame. Justin, blushing and grinning in an oversized jumper. Abby, her head tipped back in a howl of laughter. Daniel, his own laughter catching him by surprise, a rare thing. And there, in the middle of them all, Cassie, sharing a private smirk with the camera, sharp-eyed and full-cheeked and luminously alive. 

Waves are battering away at the walls Cassie had so carefully built up in her chest. And it’s Cassie’s face as she looks at her younger self. What is that, regret? Hunger? Longing? Anger? Grief?

CASSIE

(helplessly) Fuck you, Frank.

A clear defeat.

What’s terrifying is that there’s no spark to him when he replies. Nothing glib, nothing triumphant, nothing even bitter. It is only the very faint satisfaction of finally, finally reaching the conclusion to the battle that he had expected. Cassie might have been right when she accused him of not knowing a pyrrhic victory when it was staring him in the face. But from the look in Frank's eyes right now, maybe she was wrong.

FRANK

That’s my girl.

CUT TO:

[Scene: The crash. Stephen speaking very urgently to a pair of detectives (CIARAN MADDEN, 42 and ELAINE TWOHEY, 38) while half his face is still all over blood and there’s a medic doing something to his hand that makes him grimace and wince once every couple sentences. His voice is calm but urgent. 

Beyond him, the smoldering truck, the smashed car, the flipped S&O car, and a team of medics carefully extracting Sam from it. He doesn’t so much as twitch, and one arm flops over the edge of the stretcher, horribly limp, when they finally get him out. Alive or dead, it isn't clear.

Beyond that, a crowd of rubberneckers held at bay by uniforms. And one of the uniforms who is supposed to be on crowd control is sitting inside his own car, making a call on his phone, looking over his shoulder every few seconds and looking as if he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. 

CUT TO:

[Scene: The disturbingly perfect kitchen in the disturbingly perfect house. Dinner is now over, and the Mother and the Father sit at the table while the children do the dishes. The Father is listening to someone on the phone. Whoever is on the other end sounds nearly hysterical. The Father looks over at The Mother and shakes his head, face full of foreboding. Bad news. Very bad news.

The Mother is practical. There is one silver lining. Offhandedly, she mentions to her daughter that she can go to that birthday party on Sunday after all, and they don’t need to go shopping for a new black dress. The daughter is overjoyed. Her excited chatter runs on and on in the dead silence between The Father and The Mother. 

The doorbell rings, and the Father flinches at it. The Mother goes past him to open the door, her face very pale. There is a tall man standing there who looks very similar to The Father, similar enough to be his twin. He apologizes for being late in a very polite and friendly voice. He has an excuse. There was this horrible crash on the highway. He had to take a detour. 

Beyond the Mother’s polite murmuring of concern, a little ways back, there is the Father standing there with a look of mute horror on his face.]

CUT TO:

[Scene: Cassie slams the door to Frank’s apartment complex behind her and breathes in fresh deep lungfuls of cool night air. Indigo. She closes her eyes. A light breeze ruffles her hair. She stands there for a very long time.

And then a deep breath, particularly on on the exhale. Her shoulders set, and she begins walking to her car, getting out her phone as she’s walking to check if she’s got any texts.

She does have texts. And missed calls, so many missed calls. From O’Kelly, from her partner, from Stephen, from practically every single cop she knows. Every cop except for Sam.

There’s a long moment of denial, and then, as though seized by something, Cassie picks the first missed call and returns it. It’s O’Kelly, and he picks up on the first ring...]

CREDITS BEGIN


End file.
